Shamrock Alley by Ronald Damien Malfi

head back against the wall. He pressed his eyes shut, sucked air through his teeth, and when he opened his eyes again his gaze was leveled on her. She nodded and turned back to her beer with a look of unmistakable disinterest.
    “Frankie Deveneau’s girl.” He was directly behind her a moment later, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.
    She turned, half-smiled. “I thought that was you, Mickey. Take a seat.”
    Mickey climbed onto the stool next to her, ordered himself another beer. “The hell you doin’ here by yourself?”
    “Nothing. Getting some fresh air.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “Baby’s sick, been keepin’ me up. Drivin’ me crazy.” She watched him rub the sides of his face with filthy hands. His skin looked pale, and his chin was unshaven. With long, flaxen hair and startling blue eyes, Mickey O’Shay was handsome in a universal sense; his features were perfectly symmetrical, his body not muscular but lean, like the body of a long-distance runner. His teeth were small, white, even, and there was something prepubescent about him as well—something Tressa had always noticed but couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t any specific thing but, rather, the culmination of his features and mannerisms, she supposed.
    “Frank still pissin’ his pants over what happened at the club?” Mickey asked, not looking at her.
    “I ain’t seen him around much,” she lied, forcing herself to relax while sipping her beer. It suddenly tasted very bitter.
    Mickey chuckled and ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie,” he mused.
    “We’re just lucky the three of us got out without getting jammed up,” she added, baiting him with caution.
    “That cop die?”
    “Huh?”
    “That cop that was shot. You heard if he died?”
    “No … I don’t know. I didn’t realize it…”
    “Goddamn it.” He laughed again, but there was no emotion in the sound.
    If I’m going to do this
, she thought,
I’m doing it now
.
    “You still looking to move that money?”
    Mickey looked at her from the corner of one eye. He was so close she could almost make out her reflection in his pupil. “What?” He said this slowly and under his breath, the way a sinner might begin a confession. “What are you talkin’ about?”
    “I’m the one who brought that guy to Frankie to buy the stuff.”
    “So what’s that got to do with me?”
    “Mickey, Frankie told me who he’s getting the money from. I’m his girl.”
    Mickey looked down at the bar. “Frankie said this guy spooked, took off, that he ain’t interested in dealing with him no more …”
    “He ain’t,” she said, “so that’s why I came here to meet you. After that shit at the club, he don’t wanna touch Frank, thinks he’s bad luck. Whatever. He ain’t scared, but he ain’t stupid, either. Come on—Frank’s been dealing all kinds of shit outta that club since day one. It was only a matter of time before the place got hit.”
    “So what about this guy?”
    “He still wants to buy.”
    “How much?”
    “Same deal. Hundred grand, same as with Frank. He’s anxious. He’s got a buyer for it.”
    “You know him?”
    “I brought him to my boyfriend.”
    Mickey’s lips tightened, and a look of distrust flickered behind his blue eyes. A long strand of hair had fallen across his face, dividing his expression. All at once, there appeared to be hundreds of tiny creases beneath Mickey’s eyes.
    “This guy knows me?” he nearly whispered.
    “I didn’t drop your name,” she said. “He just said he don’t want nothing to do with Frank, that he wanted to go directly to Frank’s supplier for this thing to happen.” She forced a convincing smile that did nothing to soften Mickey’s expression. “So here you are—now I’m telling you what he said. Okay?” She winced inwardly—the “okay” made her sound too unsure of herself, too apologetic.
    “I don’t meet with nobody,” Mickey said, turning away